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to enjoy more detailed milk can memories.
How many days, in her day after day never ending job, did Whilhelmina get up at 3 or 4 in the morning, to go out to the barn? The dozen patient Holsteins knew her touch so well. It was a rare day when she had to fix the stanchion in place to keep them still. Bucket after bucket filled to the brim, were poured into the big metal can. Did she sing “Springfield Mountain” to them while she worked? Or did she maybe whistle the jaunty little air she’d played on the piano the night before?
How many pounds of butter did she make? How many children on her farm, or just down the road in the new town, where people didn’t have enough land to keep a cow, flourished on the milk?
Even the metal remains of the old milk can, carry me back through time.